


An Unsung Ballad

by GhostintheArchives



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abduction, Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Canon, Betrayal, Canon Universe, F/M, Family, Gen, Horror, Original Character(s), Romance, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Tragedy, Undead, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostintheArchives/pseuds/GhostintheArchives
Summary: Legends can be born at a turn of the dime, or a twist of the heart. In the case of Warden-Commander Liadan Mahariel, her course was set when she met Teagan Guerrin-- the fiery Arl of Redcliffe-- at the beginning of the Fifth Blight.It's one tale that the bards still cannot sing: when a curse struck Redcliffe Castle, a chivalrous bann recruited a ruthless ranger to save his hostage family. But battles aren’t won through honor, as she was unafraid to show him. And dire secrets can be kept by the most unlikely allies, as he discovered through her. On the night the dead woke, a powerful bond was first forged between a man trying to save all he knew, and a woman who'd try anything to save what little she had left.





	1. The Instigator

30th Solis, year 9:30 Dragon

Black wasn't a color that suited the queen.  _Though at least she waived on wearing the veil today,_ he couldn't help the thought.  _Otherwise, this might start to look like an execution._

"I, your daughter, Queen Anora, hereby swear to be faithful to the crown in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. Never shall I bear arms against you or conspire against your words, but instead strive to accept your counsel as my own and protect your person, as much as you shall protect mine as my regent."

On the royal terrace, she knelt at the feet of a grizzled man in full armor, shrunk to the height of a child again.

"The throne of Calenhad Theirin is yours, my father, until my rightful heir comes of age. This I swear in the sight of the Maker."

A moment of pregnant silence. But at last the queen unbowed: rising to her feet and stepping silently to the side of the balcony, that famous grace now weighed down with fifteen pounds of pitch-black sarcenet, brocade, and jet. The Grand Cleric lifted her hand in benediction, urging all in attendance to rise. She was still wending through the third of his titles when the new bearer of the crown strode past her, his gravelly voice rolling to the edges of the hall with the certainty of a landslide.

"And you honor me with your trust, my queen. Just as I've sworn to Maric to see this nation safe, I swear to you again that it will remain so within our lifetime."

The regent didn't so much as glance at his daughter. His gray eyes were riveted instead to the bevy of banns and arls gathered mute on the floor of the Landsmeet chamber: half of them still uncurling from their obeisances, the rest stiff-backed.

"Yours is a loss that doesn't have an equal in this room. But every soul here knows it's a betrayal with precedent."

That hardboiled gaze swept over him, lingered for a beat, then moved on. He kept his own expression just as closed.

"Two hundred years ago, the Grey Wardens led a campaign to oust King Arland from the throne. A campaign that saw their stronghold besieged and the remnants of their order banished from our borders. But it seems their malice can survive even the centuries."

Now the regent paced, plate and mail clanging steadily in the silence. Late summer light sliced against the triplet of steel diamonds on his crown. Eyes followed.

"King Cailan believed their stories of a building Blight. He trusted in their promises of a glorious victory against an archdemon, and on their counsel swore to open our borders once again to the chevaliers. He failed to see what lay behind the lofty legends, or what was written on our land in spite and blood over the ages. Now the Wardens have succeeded in fulfilling their old vengeance at Ostagar. The vaunted battle against the 'Fifth Blight' was a trap. Maric's son… has fallen."

A tactical hush; a crow cawed in the rafters. Someone in the corner failed to stifle a fidget, leather soles rasping loud over the flagstones. He willed his hands to unclench.

"Yet I still stand before you today." The regent stopped pacing; gravity deepened the rough scrape of his words. "And with me stands the Shield of Maric and all the forces of Gwaren. The Wardens may have perished in the teeth of their own trap, but they've set in motion a crisis that threatens our borders from west and south. And yet they  _will_  fail again- that, I swear."

Another pause; no applause came. The regent motioned to the chancellor at the back of the balcony. For the first time in several moments, the queen moved: a single contraction of her mouth as a scroll alighted in her father's hand.

"Henceforth, we must rally every able-bodied Fereldan to the defense of their homeland before summer's end. Just as we had when we drove out the Orlesians, and again when we banished the Wardens' legions."

At the bottom of the hall, Arl Wulff next to him crossed his arms and muttered into his beard. " _What_  able-bodied Fereldans? Ostagar took the lot of them, daft man." An absurdly-quiet remark from such a massive man.

The bleached vellum flashed open between the regent's gauntlets, his expression close to granite as he read out the first decrees.

"All freeholders who still owe annual service to their lords  _must_  join the army: a minimum of one man or woman from each household. Every man- and woman-at-arms of good family is obliged to pledge themselves to the coming campaign, whereas those too old or infirm must send substitutes, or monetary compensation to furnish new soldiers. In addition-" he suddenly lowered the scroll, returning the full force of his stare to his audience- "I expect each of you to meet an allotment of soldiers for this endeavor. We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and  _quickly_."

A litany of numbers followed; the man wasn't even glancing at the ordinance now, as though quoting from memory.

"For lords with incomes exceeding one hundred sovereigns a year, debts withstanding: eighty mounted troops. Below that, but exceeding fifty sovereigns a year: forty mounted troops. Beneath that, but exceeding twenty-five sovereigns: twenty mounted troops. I expect twice those numbers for your knights’ retainers. And again for pike-men.”  

Each sum dropped onto the Bannorn with the impact of a roofing tile: raising a ripple of low murmurs and protests half-swallowed as neighbors turned to shoot questions at each other. Forty-odd cloaks rustled as they dropped over purses and gilt prayer-books. An older bann decided to sit down, and ended partway between his valet's catch and the carpet.   

Wulff didn't bother whisper now. "Well. We'll be seeing a riot in about thirty more counts. Daft bugger."

"'Daft' doesn't describe it. But thank you for the other part."

The regent didn't seem to hear. "For those with annual incomes below that final margin, other means of contribution will be devised. But in all cases, proofs of income  _will_ be validated by the capital's comptroller and the palace treasurer-  _no exceptions_." He rolled up the token scroll, sliding new steel into his address. "Whoever fails to comply will face swift justice from the crown. As ordained in times of war."

Now a full susurrus of whispers erupted from the floor, the heads and tails of oaths slipping from the youngest voices. A few dared to look to the balcony. The queen's mouth flinched to a frown; her hand rose to the stocky marshal, readying him.

At last, he murmured to his neighbor, "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Odd time to look for the  _privy_ , man-" Wulff did a double-take. "Hey, where are you going? _Hey_."

But he was already weaving to the front of the restive crowd, stepping carefully onto what free floor he could find. While the soles of the others were clad in satin and calfskin, his were in pure steel.

The regent raised his voice above the hubbub. "… _Understand_  that the losses at Ostagar were  _not_ insignificant. Yet still lurking west and south are those poised to take advantage of our weakened state if we let them."

Without turning, he shoved the scroll back to the chancellor; the man almost fumbled the catch. The regent continued, tempering some of the steel on his tongue. "My lords and ladies, we must defeat this darkspawn incursion. But we must do so sensibly, and without hesitation; this is only the first of many battles to seize our country again."

"Your lordship, if I might speak?"

The regent abruptly broke off, frowned in full, and squinted over the banister.

He pulled to a stop right below the terrace. And he let those eyes search his face one more time, light by a fraction, flick to his mail, then scowl anew. The hall behind him hushed.

_Yes, you scarcely remember me, do you? Never imagined that one day, I might walk into this hall to speak. But 'the Hero of River Dane' is an excuse three decades too old to explain why you're here. It's past time someone said it._

The sudden silence piled onto his shoulders. He mustered a breath, then pressed his voice smooth: "Ostagar, without doubt, was a tragedy. It galls us all to hear our king was betrayed on the field."

A rolling chorus of agreement. A voice he didn't recognize piped up, "Indeed."

"Yet instead of a Grey Warden, we find only you returning to Denerim, Loghain Mac Tir. Here, you have declared yourself Queen Anora's regent, and claim we must unite under your banner for our own good."

No chorus this time. Loghain compressed a glare.  _Good._

"For the sake of those who didn't witness Ostagar, who weren't able to stand at our king's side when he fell, enlighten us: why withdraw your troops from the field? It seems most…"

Two beats. Then he left the word fall: "…Fortuitous."

A collective shout rose from the back of the hall, tumbling and undulating through the crowd until it broke over his back below the promenade: the sounds of outrage, disbelief, and shock lapping high to the ceiling. The crows in the rafters scattered; black feathers rained down.

The marshal roared for order, banging his steel-plated staff onto the flagstones of the balcony. The queen seemed frozen. Loghain suddenly strode straight to the banister; the first row of the Bannorn flinched right, left, and aft of him.

" _Everything_  I have done has been to secure the safety and sovereign rights of our nation, where our king could  _not_." His reply beat like a smithy hammer, mimed by the cut of his hand. "I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither…" his voice projected over the whole hall, "…will any of you!"

"What do you mean by that, Mac Tir?!" Wulff bellowed from the back. The cork came loose; voices riled and followed.

"What happened down south? What happened to all those men and women we sent?"

"You've the gall to decide  _our_ duties, cottar's son?!"

"It's the Theirin line we follow, not yours!" he snapped back at the balcony, full anger bristling his tongue. "The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!"

Loghain's gauntlet came down on the railing with a splintering crack; the first row of the Bannorn jumped again.

" _Understand this,_ " the new king thundered from overhead, "I will brook no threat to this nation. From you" - those gimlet eyes bore into him, then lifted- "or anyone!"

A curt gesture over the shoulder; his guards followed him away from the balcony. The chancellor glanced at the stupefied Grand Cleric, then dropped in pursuit.

Above them, the crows were long-gone, feathers still spinning in the amber-lit air.

The marshal pounded his staff four more times, punctuating the pitched rabble on the floor, then shook his head and gestured at the doormen, who reluctantly peeled open the exit. Half the lords broke away, drifting in piecemeal to the doors. The other half besieged the balcony, like alms-seekers in satin, palms spread as they hollered to the queen and the Grand Cleric.

_It's beyond a riot, Gallagher; it's madness._ He pressed one gauntlet over his eyes, grimacing, the cold steel a welcome shock against his forehead. Already his name was being pelted at his back from voices friendly, unfriendly, and unknown; he answered by turning on his heel and striding out of the throng to the exit.

But one petition made him start in mid-step. "Bann Teagan, please!"

He turned again. The queen was craning half out of the balcony, porcelain pale, her golden hair lit like a halo; he shook his head in disbelief.

"Your Majesty- your father risks  _civil war!_ "  _Yet you stood mute this entire time._  "You don't mean to tell us you support this stunt? If Eamon were here-"

Queen Anora seemed to fold into herself, slender hands clutching at the cracked banister. "Bann Teagan, I beg you to understand." Her gaze was veiled. "My father is only doing what is best at this time."

_And once, I thought you were above bleating like a little girl._  "Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?"

The widow's mask split open with a full flinch. Teagan kept his back unbowed, and his apology in the grave, as he turned for the doors one last time.


	2. A Price for Penance

1st Matrinalis, year 9:30 Dragon. All Soul's Day.

"Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker. Blessed art thou who seeks His forgiveness…"

The Chant sluiced over him from a choir four dozen strong as he approached the altar. Incense and sweet myrrh hazed the air over the urn, shrouded from all eyes by a black velvet pall emblazoned with a sunburst. Behind it stood the portrait of the deceased at his coronation: lantern-jawed, wheat-haired, and criminally-handsome, frozen at the cusp of manhood. Propped up on the altar, the painting nearly passed his height. Teagan lowered his head and said nothing, unswaddling the offering in his arms.

"…Blessed art thou who seeks His return…"

From one side of the altar, the queen arched an eyebrow at the battered crossbow: half-split to the butt of its stock, the steel lathe curling deep on one side like a fishing hook.

He replied with a threadbare smile. "It's a long story, Your Majesty. But Cailan valued this." No comment came as he laid the maimed crossbow to rest before the urn. The loose bowstring drooped across a gold-leafed prayer book studded with garnets, and a ceremonial dagger wrought into a miniature Blade of Mercy.

"…Blessed is the Prophetess, His Bride, sacrificed to the holy flame…"

It had been eight years since Cailan asked him to keep this bow safe in Rainesfere's keep. 'Because Anora wouldn't understand the story even if it ends up in a history scroll someday,' the young man had laughed. 'If she's feeling generous, she might smuggle this poor thing out and have someone hammer it straight. And then where will I be when I hunt in those blasted highlands you call home, Uncle?'

On that unforgettable jaunt at the foot of the Frostbacks, Teagan was a dozen yards behind the then-prince when he tried to cut across a humped, tussocky rise to fell the stag first. Halfway down, the royal stallion suddenly swerved before a fox hole, struck the turf on its knees, and catapulted his nephew crosswise off the saddle and past the hairpin shoulder of the hill. A quarter hour later, Teagan and their retinue found him at the bottom of the gulch: dazed and rolled in dirt, but completely unhurt. His crossbow on the other hand was crumpled into fishing tackle for the whale-shark.

'I fall off horses; that's what I do too,' Cailan had quipped. 'But this'- he punched the sky with the warped bow, laughing- 'this faithful thing swapped fates with me and took the landing that would have broken my neck; I owe it my life."

_And you never again hunted in Rainesfere without two bows: one you could shoot with, and this one slung across your back like a holy relic. After eight years, I still can't tell if you merely enjoyed your story, or believed it._

His arms moved to cross himself under that painted smile.  _Even if the Maker's side is a less eventful place, my nephew, you might want this again._

"…May the Chant reach His ears and tell Him of our contrition."

From the other end of the altar, the Grand Cleric brought the ritual candle to him: a beeswax figurine stained scarlet, and whittled into a bound woman set aflame. Her eyes were already lost under waxy tears. "On your leave, my lord."

 _It will take more than a candle to burn off my mistakes, Your Grace._ But on rote, he twisted off his signet ring and bared his right hand. _Much less to say about the man ahead of me in the line._

He thought of the royal vanguard marching south, the Imperial Highway clogged with steel and baggage trains. Then suddenly, it was a teenager's dirt-smeared face in front of him again, flaxen hair tangled with turf; a high, infectious laugh that whipped away under a sky threatening to storm. His chest constricted; his palm dropped low over the purification flame, skin blistering at once.

"May your sins be burnt away and your soul emerge clean once more." In the lull of the choir, the Grand Cleric's voice sounded all but dead, brittle from the years. "As the holy flame that consumed our Prophet returned her pure to the Maker's side."

His seared hand retracted, clenched; a ball of fire smoldered inside his fist. "…So let it be." Teagan managed a single-degree nod and turned away from his nephew's urn, plunging his hand into the cistern of chilled water that an initiate hurried his way. Incense cloyed his nose.

Entrenched in the first pew right of the central aisle was the queen's father, now in black this morning. The regent brusquely flexed a suede glove over his right hand; then he caught the bann's glance. For a moment, there was no expression. And then that thick-knuckled hand folded in, slowly, fingers meeting like creases in a rock; Loghain held his stare.

Teagan returned it. _There is no greater miracle than getting along with your in-laws._  Carefully, he withdrew his hand from the cistern, bowed to the silent queen, and descended from the dais. Flanking the path to the urn was a sextet of knights: six suits of burnished steel frozen at attention, their halberds stiff against their shoulders.

Three steps. Then something lodged into the crook of his ankle.

A dizzying lurch; his foot missed the next step. Teagan stumbled hard off the dais, right into the next mourner in line. The man didn't try to catch him; his shoulder stabbed into the corner of an enameled knife-box, which the other guest deftly brought up like a shield.

"Mind yourself, Guerrin," Howe remarked airily, when he landed on the chapel floor.

The choir faltered, quickly enough for the sound of his fall to tumble down the nave. A reel of gasps rolled back up. Clerics scurried forward. The Amaranthine lord fixed his eyes to the ceiling, like it was First Day, and there was a drunk sprawled next to him at Mass.

Teagan's ears burned to their roots as his hands found the sable carpet and pushed the rest of him upright, shoulder smarting.

"It's 'Teryn' Howe this time, isn't it?" the bann of Rainesfere returned, dusting off his sleeve. He turned and met a pair of disinterested eyes, dark as witch-hazel.

"You catch on quickly, after being gone from court so long." A droll nod at the apse. "Now. If I'm not keeping you…?"

Another beat. The choir remained silent. Teagan forced a breath through his nose, and took a precise step to the side. "…You have my apologies. Don't let me keep you from paying your respects."

Howe didn't reply, ascending to the altar with a clinical nod at the Grand Cleric. Across from her, the queen's mouth was stitched into a frown. One of the knights- the nearest of the triad on his left- rotated his halberd by a fraction, once again lining up its dulled blade with its partner opposite. He didn't glance at Teagan.

Now he realized exactly where he had been standing, just moments ago.  _Between Loghain and Howe, who was the one who prodded you out of formation? And how much of that was for the queen to see?_

The chanters deemed it safe to start up again: a wordless harmony spun out of three different octaves that ricocheted across the vaulted ceiling, shivering the rose-stained glass stoppering the eastern window.

Abusing the carpet down the center of the nave was a line of mourners from Ferelden's highest offices: the Bannorn; the scions of the lords still missing after Ostagar; their nearest cousins in the clergy and law. They inched forward as one, through the bower of rue framing the double-doors and into the vast hall dimmed like a cavern: the windows lined with smoky crepe, walls dressed in black damask. Five hundred candles burned from candelabras and age-blackened chandeliers, each bearing the Theirin family's escutcheon.

There was a chaste cough by his shoulder. "Um… if you're well, milord," A young sister hovered behind him, hands knitting together under her sleeves, her green eyes in permanent wince. She didn't look older than sixteen.

The sight of her punctured the anger left in him. Teagan repressed a sigh, and gestured. "I'll manage, thank you," he said, without much feeling.

"I hope so. We'll be holding a full Mass today."

 _And I'll be here for all of it. Until nightfall today, and the next two days after. Denerim needs a chance to see Cailan's urn in state._ The king's uncle resisted the urge to rub his shoulder.  _But_   _Maker forgive me, and Cailan as well, I hope something dire happens to turn this crowd out. I haven’t seen so many wolves in a building since ‘Dane and the Werewolf’ played at court._

* * *

The Guerrins' purchased bench groaned and bit into his back exactly as it had every year for the past two decades as he settled himself in. Mechanically, Teagan spun his ring on again, and inspected the braised pink flesh in his right palm: a web of prickling pain that expanded and contracted as his hand flexed.

Up ahead, Howe withdrew his hand from nine inches above the ritual candle-flame. Arl Bryland stepped to the altar next, saluting portrait, urn, and widow. Teagan's hand contracted again.

The pot was empty- they all knew it. Not even a heart was saved from the darkspawn on the field.

News of Ostagar was only just trickling into Denerim in fits and starts: like a plague ferried in by the refugees and the survivors, and discussed about as willingly. But the bare facts were damning. The Korcari Wilds overrun and the earth said to be blackening; Cailan and most of the army massacred; the Grey Wardens dust again; the field tactician and reigning regent returning with his own division fully-intact, claiming treachery that also removed the only defendants.

_If Loghain returned with even half a legion and claimed a lost attempt, we might be willing to pardon him. But toss in that tripe about the Wardens and blame Cailan for risking all, and he has marked himself as an extraordinarily-desperate man._

His ring eddied again around his finger, the family crest flashing into and out of his sight.  _Eamon will shudder to wonder when his old comrade changed skins from hero to usurper._

A bronze plate stamped with the Maker's Eye joined the tributes on the altar. Two hundred more feet shuffled along the carpet. From far in the courtyard, a professional mourner began wailing her lungs out, her impressive shrieks ricocheting through the nave by freak of acoustics.

The sisters on the north end of the chancel burst into a new canticle: "But when they took a single step toward the empty throne, a great voice cried out, shaking the very foundations of Heaven and earth…"

The brothers rumbled from the opposite wall: "…And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in My hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven, and doom upon all the world…"

"Maker's breath: they really  _did_ throw in the Threnodies." Teagan gave a mighty wince. "…As if we need another lesson on what the Blight is." He remembered himself, and quickly rose to that old feint: hands clasped before him and head hung low, his expression out of sight from the first initiate that stared his way. Below the verse, the mourner in the courtyard screamed at the heavens.

"…Violently were they cast down, for no mortal may walk bodily in the realm of dreams…."

'Would you fault me for dreaming of peace, Uncle?' Four months ago, a man in the prime of his life stood on the dew-speckled battlements of Rainesfere's keep, pine boughs slapping at the foot of the castle as the wind woke. Down in the murky glen, druffalo-teams dragged the first furrows of the year across the earth, fenced in by lines of fulgent yellow gorse. 'It's no disrespect to my father to work with Orlesians in quelling the Blight.' Cailan's chin hung an inch higher than its normal altitude, as though it was the Landsmeet chamber again. 'If anything, I'm honoring his memory: he brought the Grey Wardens back to Ferelden; he of all people knew what a menace the darkspawn could be, to all nations, across all borders. And I like to think he dreamed of a time past the Occupation: when the Orlesians wouldn't remain kicked yoke-masters still sore from their loss, but neighbors who'd respect us as equals.' Glacial light glanced off the runes of his longsword as the king tilted it to the sun. His chuckle belonged to the same prince who cartwheeled off his horse and into a gulley. 'And respect us they will, when they watch me fell an Old God with my father's sword. You're sure you want to miss out on the fun?'

_So I did. Rainesfere didn't exactly have a successor if the worst happened to me. You hadn't insisted._

When he had pointed out how the Free Marches were only two weeks by sea from Gwaren, his nephew's reply came flip and decided: 'You  _would_ know how the Marchers work; I'm sure they'll be eager for a second go at beating the Blight. But Empress Celene gets mortally-offended ever so easily. And the Orlesians can dance with us south in half the time.' Cailan's next answer had carried only slightly less laugh: 'You're saying I should throw Uncle Eamon into Loghain's fire-breath, right after beating his cold? No, Redcliffe may join us south only when absolutely ready. The teryn is  _my_ responsibility; he'll remember who's king and stop with his apoplexies every time he hears 'chevaliers'.' Finally, a measured, sidelong squint: 'So. Did he also bring you onboard to tell me to stay off the frontlines?'

_Yes. Perhaps all it would have taken was one more person you trusted._

His comeback on that final morning returned to him; damp pines and the velvet sweetness of gorse vied with incense. 'You know Eamon never has trouble speaking for himself; I'm only here to provide the impolitic commentary. Now, what do you say to heading down to the moor once this fog lifts? I'll wager you're going to miss the next two hare seasons while you're saving Thedas.'

Teagan opened his eyes again to a silent portrait and a cathedral in song. Curlicues of smoke thinned from taper and candlestick to smog the ceiling. A ring of initiates touched up candlewicks that spat and hissed to an early grave, hovering like rhubarb-colored moths in their flaring sleeves.

The mourner in the courtyard was taking a breather. The queue crawled interminably; the Grand Cleric resigned herself to nodding at the next hands to pass over the ritual flame. On the altar, someone dropped a sprig of Prophet's Laurel over Cailan's crossbow, blood-red berries spilling over splintered wood.

"…Deep into the earth they fled, away from the Light. In Darkness eternal they searched for those who had goaded them on…"

 _That morning, you may or may not have listened to what I had to say. But it's my own sin that for the past five years after you took the throne, I never lifted a hand to protect you._  The hard band of his signet ring cut between his fingers as they knitted together.  _If you'll permit me now, I_ will  _fulfill the duty I owed you years ago. The entire Guerrin family will stand in the coming Landsmeets. The regent will know what justice is. The truth behind Ostagar will be known._

The empty spaces right and left of him pressed into his shoulders. _And you will be remembered for what you attempted to do. Not for how you fell._

"…Until at last, they found their prize. Their god, their betrayer: the sleeping dragon Dumat..."

A rustle of satin closed in from behind, then rounded the left-hand corner of his pew. Teagan blinked twice. At the corner of his eye, a rangy, dark-eyed woman slipped between barricade and bench, crossing twelve paces into the aisle to stand at his elbow. Her black plait bobbed as she offered a nod. Then her hands folded one across the other in prayer, shoulders and back militant-straight under the mantle of her plain, sable dress.

It took him another moment to place her as Ser Cauthrien- Loghain's lieutenant and commander of the Shield of Maric- only missing her usual red-steel mail.

"Your brother is doing well, Bann Teagan?" the knight finally whispered.

"We have hopes that he'll recover. But would you oblige to tell me why you're here, my lady?" His head remained bowed, question coiled low under the prismatic verse ringing from north and south. Like a warning, his shoulder throbbed again.

"On the queen's behalf, my lord." Cauthrien's lips barely moved. "She urges you to reconsider your stance."

"…Their taint twisted even the false-god. And the Whisperer awoke at last, in pain and horror…"

 _So that's why you were plucked out of the escort for Cailan's urn._ "Dare I ask which?"

She sidestepped the bait. "I was at Ostagar as well; I saw the might of the horde firsthand. And I agree with you in that we can't risk a civil war in this dire time."

"Was seeing the darkspawn's might what also convinced you to leave our king to die?" The rosemary water in her hair pricked his nostrils. "If  _that_ is your way of avoiding civil war, you'd better reconsider a diplomatic career."

"…And led them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world: the First Blight." The Canticle closed to a many-tiered hum, to a hush, and to silence. Far in the courtyard, a second mourner joined the first; a fresh howl half-an-octave lower rattled down the cathedral.

Cauthrien's scar-crossed hands dropped to rest on the barricade, and gripped; she looked neither left nor right as her voice narrowed. "Loghain made the right call: there was no saving Cailan from the horde, after he was goaded into such a vulnerable position by the Wardens. Otherwise,  _everyone_  would have perished that night, and where would this country be with neither Cailan  _nor_ Loghain?"

"Well to start" -Teagan kept his whisper as casual as frostbite- "we wouldn't have a disingenuous deserter on the throne."

"Your mouth never did you any credit."

"My dear lady, if you want to start a row here, you'll receive one." He bowed himself back to his seat.

By the altar, the Grand Cleric stooped with arthritic slowness for a thirteen-year-old bann. "May your sins be burnt away and your soul emerge clean once more, just as the holy flame that consumed our Prophet…"

"I am here," -the soldier's hiss was fit to grind millet between syllables- "at the bequest of my queen to convince you to act  _sensibly._ " The pew groaned as she dropped in alongside him; black satin lashed, whipping his knee. "She spoke as she was obliged to during the coronation, but the whole country knows Cailan left no heir. Loghain is now our only option for unity; inciting a war against him would doom Ferelden at this time."

"Perhaps he should have asked you to pen his speech yesterday."

"My liege would never have said those words if  _you_  hadn't minded your  _tongue_." Her nostrils were dilating now; Teagan didn't dare check the pews behind them. "It was a delicate decree, but a necessary one; the long and short of it is that we need more soldiers. He keeps no other intention but to save Ferelden. While all you were looking to do was to raise a riot."

Wulff did a double-take from the queue; Teagan smiled flatly in his direction. "And that was less reasonable? Asking for a reason to trust the man who sacrificed his own liege's son?"

"What will satisfy you? Anointment? A flogging on the square for the survivors? Maric is still alive in my lord's memory; that decision on the field wasn't one he made lightly." Cauthrien stared down a passing brother; the young cleric doubled his pace past the women's choir.

' _Lightly'? If that's the worst you can put it, the flogging doesn't sound too bad._ Teagan counted two breaths as he stared straight ahead at the altar. "Your loyalty is commendable, Cauthrien- that much I can say. But will he be as honest on why his daughter couldn't reign alone? He doesn't strike me as a doting father."

"Anora is a capable administrator, but even she can err." The knight pinched a rue petal off her skirt, kneading it slowly between her fingers. "Which she did by letting Cailan run rogue. Even humoring his bid to recruit the Orlesian Wardens and chevaliers, with the barest swap of curtseys at the border."

Teagan's next retort caught and died in his throat.

_It was the Orlesians- it was only ever about keeping the Orlesian forces from joining the field and returning to Ferelden. Ostagar was Loghain's chance to rescind Cailan's decree._

The steel spurs on the regent's crown flashed in his memory; the thunder that followed as he declared their borders west and south under jeopardy.

_Would it have come to this if I convinced Cailan to petition the Free Marches instead? To send me there as an envoy before the campaign began?_

He kept his back poker straight.  _Eleven cities and their armies. Two weeks by sea from Kirkwall to Gwaren. Ten days from there to Ostagar, on forced march._ Silently, his burnt hand came to rest on the edge of the pew past his knee, gripping the wood with bloodless fingers. _It could have been done._

The choir hummed to life, a time-honored guilt stretching the lyrics to crystalline gauze: "And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought, and despaired…"

Cauthrien tasted his silence and pressed the advantage. "You're neither a self-serving man nor a fool. So think carefully, Bann Teagan, on how you could best serve the nation in this tenuous time. Cailan sits at the Maker's side today. While our queen stands behind a hero who faced the 'spawn, and proved twice-over that he would give everything for his homeland." Her hands folded again on her lap. "Which is more than you ever did in your lifetime."

"…The work of man and woman, by hubris of their making. The sorrow a blight unbearable…"

His lungs burned, but he trained his gaze just above the barricade, the grain polished to a bronze glaze from hundreds of sleeves.

On the altar, gold glinted under a wilting sun; a mabari's gilded foot poked through the funeral pall, bracing the base of his nephew's urn.

"…Those who had sought to claim Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was golden and pure…"

"We're at an impasse then, Cauthrien." His voice, when he discovered it again, rang distant to his own ears. His right hand seethed as his fingers flexed free from the pew. "But contrary to your and the queen's estimations, I'm not potent enough to guide this country into anarchy."

"…Turned black. Those who had once been mage-lords, the brightest of their age, were no longer men…"

"Rather, the honor of 'flag-cutter' belongs to your liege after he removed a king and flattened the Bannorn's rights. Why not ask the Hero of River Dane where he took his lessons in Orlesian statecraft?"

"…But monsters."

Teagan climbed back to his feet, his hands stiff at his sides. On cue, the choir droned to a multi-chord silence. Two hundred pairs of eyes magnetized his way from apse, pew, and chancel. Bann Alfstanna on the dais swirled on her ring, turned from the headless crimson candle, and added another stare. The Grand Cleric's mouth was a half-moon of worry as her gaze flicked to him, to his left, and back.

' _Ask and thou shalt receive': something dire did happen here today. Though only one sinner is getting turned out of Mass._ He crossed himself one last time, his head dipping to the portrait crowning the head of the hall.  _I'm sorry, Cailan, once again. But this isn't a place where you can be mourned._

Hairs rose as the wailers in the courtyard keened in tandem into the silence.

Teagan turned left, away from the queue. But at once, he collided into an arm dressed in satin and hammered in a forge, locking crosswise between bench and barricade.

Cauthrien's glare seared into the woodgrain, her jaw almost welded shut as she whispered between her teeth. "Unlike some, I offer you a fair warning, Bann Teagan. If you'll heed it. Slander Loghain before me again, take up arms against my lord and regent, and I  _will_  take your head. Some of us still recall what duty is." Those dark eyes stabbed up at him. "If I were you, I wouldn't grow too bold at throwing stones from under Eamon's shadow- it's not as safe as you think."

Three beats, and she withdrew her arm: a lady in black once again, sitting ramrod straight at the head of the chapel.

Somewhere in the hall, a prayer book opened with the sound of cracking pond ice. The queue unfroze and trudged forward, heads pivoting to the new tableau on the Guerrins' bench. A templar retreated through the doors to silence the screamers on the square.

Under the wondering eyes of Chantry and gentry, Teagan finally released another breath and stepped past Cauthrien, spine straight, his eyes averted as well. "I was never under that assumption, my lady."


End file.
